It was working. He hadn’t murdered anyone, of course, but, still, he felt that he might be guilty of something, and that the inspector knew what it was, even if Max didn’t.
“Were you with anyone, sir?” It was Sergeant Pierce who’d spoken.
Max almost told them about bumping into Burton, but he didn’t want them to know about that. He didn’t want anyone to know about that. Or, rather, he didn’t want them to know about him knowing Burton. It had been a long time ago, certainly, but, still… “I don’t recall anyone,” Max said. “It’s all a bit hazy.”
“Do you know anyone called Crawford? John Crawford?”
“No. Is that his name? The dead man?”
“The murdered man,” the sergeant said.
“That was his name, sir,” Longford said, “when he was alive.”
When he finished saying this, the inspector sucked on his pipe, making a dry sound, as if he were drawing a deliberate link between the death of the man and the extinguishing of his pipe. There was no smoke now, though, which was a small relief to Max.
“I’ve never known anyone called Crawford, as far as I can recall.”
The inspector inspected the bowl of his pipe and decided that it was, indeed, dead. He tapped it out in his ashtray and started to refill it, pressing the tobacco down with his thumb.
Longford now sat back and regarded Max for a moment.
Max shifted in his seat. He’d been trying to remember exactly what had happened last night, but it was a bit of a blur. The one thing he was sure of, though, was that he hadn’t witnessed anyone being killed. Still…
“Were you ever in the army, sir?” Longford said as he struck a match and put it to his pipe.
The question seemed so casual, and yet Max felt there was significance behind the asking. There had to be. What did they know, these policemen? What could they know? “Yes. ’16 to ’18.”
“Which regiment, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Why should I mind? Grenadier Guards.”
“You were an officer?”
Again, the question seemed trivial, but they were digging into Max, bit by bit. He answered the question carefully. “I became an officer, yes.”
“And were you conscripted?”
“No.”
“You enlisted?”
“Yes.”
“Very noble of you,” Sergeant Pierce said flatly.
Max turned to him. He was beginning to feel like a bull in an arena, prodded by small men with long swords, each cut making him more fearful, more angry. “What does that mean?”
Pierce didn’t reply, but instead glanced at his inspector, who said, “Well, you were young, the war had been going for a couple of years by then. You must’ve thought you could wait it out, perhaps survive the war without serving. So, it was a noble gesture, volunteering.”
“There was nothing noble about it. I thought they’d probably fetch me in the end. If I enlisted, I’d at least get to choose which regiment I served in.”
“In which you served,” the inspector said quietly, although not quietly enough.
“What?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” Longford said. “It was just that you ended with a preposition.”
Max felt himself redden. “Did I? How unfortunate of me.”
“So you chose the Grenadier Guards,” Longford said, looking perplexed. “Any reason why?”
“I like red.”
“Red?” Longford, still looking perplexed, examined his pipe.
“The dress uniform,” Max said. “You must’ve seen the changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.”
“I don’t get much time to go to Buckingham Palace, I’m afraid.”
“Well, they have nice red uniforms. And bearskins.”
“And did you find many occasions on which to wear your nice red uniform, sir?”
“The army aren’t keen on Guards wearing their dress uniforms at the front. Might get dirty.”
“And you received a commission when you enlisted.”
The inspector had said that as a statement, even though Max felt it was a question. Should he tell them the truth? But why should he? What difference did it make to a couple of coppers whether he’d been commissioned? He was beginning to feel afraid. “Why all the questions about my war service?” he said.
“Is that when you met Mr Crawford, sir? When you were in the Guards?”
“What?”
“The deceased.”
“I told you, I’ve never heard of anyone called Crawford.”
“Ah. It’s just that we noticed he was wearing Grenadier Guards cufflinks. Silver, no less.”
Max’s blood ran cold. He said, “What?”
“Well, you were both in the same regiment, and you were both approximately the same age, and you were both seen in approximately the same place last night, at approximately the same time, and he was murdered and you say you don’t know him. So, I wondered whether there was anything in that, in you both serving in the Grenadier Guards.”
“Did you know him well, sir?” Pierce said.
Max glanced over at the sergeant, who was leaning over his desk, pen hovering over the notebook, looking at Max, waiting. “Um.”
A cold sweat broke out over his body. He shifted in his seat. Longford and Pierce waited, silently, and the silence started to seem to Max a tactic, a trap of some kind. He felt the sweat begin to gather around his collar as the silence got louder. What did it mean? “May I have a glass of water?” he said.
Longford flicked his gaze to Pierce, who stood slowly, as if it were a great effort. He walked casually from the room. “Are you ill, sir?” Longford said, blowing smoke in Max’s general direction.
“No, just a bit…” He was about to say ‘hungover’, but realised with a sudden dread that might imply a blackout or a drunken spat or something. Did he want Longford to know that? Did he want Longford to know anything about the night before? But hadn’t he already told them he’d been drinking? Hadn’t he already implied that he couldn’t remember? Oh, God. This was bad.
“A bit what?”
“Hot.”
Longford nodded, but his affirmation was the least affirmative that Max had ever seen. Rather, it was as if Longford were laughing at him. Or so it seemed to Max.
After a few hundred years, Pierce returned and handed Max a glass of lukewarm tap water, which Max received gratefully. “Where… where did he serve? This Crawford?” he said.
“Wouldn’t he have served where you served? If he was in the same regiment?”
“Depends which battalion he was in.”
Max cursed himself again. Ending with a preposition. How terribly gauche. He felt himself redden, and knew that Longford had noticed.
“We’re waiting to hear from the War Office,” Longford said. “About the details of Mr Crawford’s service.”
Max didn’t speak, didn’t think he could speak without his voice betraying him. He kept thinking of Burton. There were too many coincidences. The pub the night before, the same regiment, the chance meeting.
Longford waited. Pierce waited, pen suspended. Finally, Longford looked at his thumb nail and said, “Oh, there was one other thing, sir.”
Max watched Longford as he examined his thumb nail. It was all so casual, all so polite. And yet, there was something in this, the pipe, the glances, the bloody thumb nail.
“What?” Max said, his voice husky.
Longford moved his eyes slowly from his hand to Max. Pierce sniffed. Max felt like that bull in the arena, skewered, bleeding, dying.
Longford opened a drawer in his desk and, with an economy of movement that told Max he’d planned this all along, removed a small book, opening it to a page and holding it out for Max to see. “A notebook, found on the deceased. It contained your addres
s, and the phone number of your workplace. That is your address, isn’t it? And your workplace number?”
Max found himself looking at neatly written black words on white paper. He knew the address, and the phone number. He couldn’t breathe. He felt his heart hammer in his chest, in his throat. He felt dizzy, light-headed. He felt guilty. He thought, they’ve got me.
Then the door burst open, and Martha marched in. A small man in a blue suit and glasses trotted behind her and a befuddled-looking police constable brought up the rear.
“Sir,” the police constable said, pushing his way to the front, “this lady—”
He didn’t get any further because Martha pushed him aside. “Max,” she cried, rushing towards him and grasping him around the neck, kissing him on the cheek and lips.
“It’s… all… right… Martha,” Max said between kisses.
Martha suddenly straightened up, turned to Sergeant Pierce and said, “Inspector, I’d like to know what—”
Pierce pointed to Longford, who cleared his throat. Martha swung around and faced Longford. “Inspector, I’d like to know what the devil’s going on here. Why have you arrested my husband? I demand—”
“We haven’t arrested him,” Longford said.
Martha took a deep breath and said, “Oh.”
“I’m a potential witness,” Max said. “Although I think I’ve answered your questions, Inspector.”
He stood up, and Martha took his arm possessively. “If you have any further questions, please speak to my solicitor,” she nodded to the small man with glasses, “Mr… uh…”
“Mr Bacon,” the small man said.
“Bacon?” Martha said. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
With that, Martha marched out, Max in tow. Mr Bacon smiled nervously and followed. Sergeant Pierce glanced at Inspector Longford, who was lamenting another dead pipe.
“What do you think?” Pierce said.
“I think something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
“Eh?”
“He’s lying.”
Chapter Five
They were silent for a while, sitting in the back of a cab, avoiding talking about what had happened. Max thought about the questions he’d been asked, and knew that there had to be a connection of some kind that he couldn’t see. Unless… Unless Burton was Crawford. Things made sense if that were true, but otherwise they made no sense at all. And what of the detectives Longford and Pierce? That had been a strange interview, and unpleasant. He’d felt as if he really had witnessed a murder or, worse, as if he’d had some involvement in one.
Their attitude, from the start, had been to treat him with hostility and not, as they’d maintained, as a witness. He’d been rattled, that was true. He’d been evasive, not wanting to explain about Burton, and that had been stupid, only making them more suspicious. God knows what would’ve happened if Martha hadn’t burst in with that little man.
“Where did you find him?” Max said, turning to his wife.
Martha had been watching the streets of London blur past, losing herself for a while in the anonymity of the city; the dark and grey people, the stone buildings and the tarmac roads, the black cabs, buses and trams liveried in dirt-stained red or green. It all became one thing, each bleeding into the others so that Martha could feel a part of the melee and yet removed from it, watching it through a window.
“Martha?” Max said.
Martha turned, smiled faintly, snapped out of her reverie. “What? Oh, Mr Gammon. He works at Daddy’s solicitors.”
“And how did you find out where I was?”
“Flora. Made quite a scene at the café.”
“Flora,” Max said.
“Let’s not talk about it now,” Martha said, raising her eyebrows at the cabbie.
“Oh. Right.”
Martha went back to watching life pass by as the cab rumbled along. It was true she didn’t want to talk about things now, but not for the reason she gave. The truth was, she was afraid.
When they entered the flat, Flora was waiting, standing in the sitting room with her arms by her side. She tried to smile as Max winked at her. “Oh, it was awful,” she said. Then she burst into tears.
“It’s okay, Flora,” Max said. “Just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“Compose yourself, Flora,” Martha said.
“Oh, sir,” Flora said. She attempted to fling her arms around Max, while, at the same time, trying to compose herself. She ended up sticking her elbow in Max’s ribs and bursting into tears again.
“Flora, why don’t you go and carry on in the kitchen for a bit. We’re behind schedule for the dinner tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Flora, wiping her nose on her sleeve, walked stiffly from the room.
For a moment, Max and Martha looked at each other, not quite knowing what to say. Finally, Martha said, “Oh, hell.”
She went to the drinks cabinet and poured them both large Scotches.
“Are we going to carry on with that?” Max said. “The dinner party?”
“Why not?”
Martha handed Max his drink. He looked at it, then at Martha, who was watching him with something like pain in her eyes. Max smiled at her. “It’s over now.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, of course. Why do you say that?”
Martha didn’t answer for a long time. For some reason, she thought of the young couple she’d seen in the café at lunchtime, and the memory of them sank to a point, far inside her, and echoed with a hollow ring. “I was scared,” she said finally. “I was actually scared. I can’t remember ever being scared before, except when I was a child and my cat ran away.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t run away.”
“It came back. My cat.”
Max sipped his Scotch. Martha looked at hers, then sat down, pushing herself over to the very edge of the sofa. She put the glass on the coffee table. “Perhaps you’d better tell me about last night.”
“There’s nothing much to tell.”
“Max. Please. I know you. I know you’re not telling me something. Was it a woman?”
He didn’t even need to answer that.
“Well, all right. But there’s something, isn’t there?”
Max took another sip of Scotch, then swirled the remaining fluid around in the glass and watched it rotate. Martha watched him watching the Scotch.
“Who was he, Max?”
“What?”
“The man who was killed. It’s obvious you knew him. Was he the one you met last night? The one from your regiment?”
Max still wouldn’t look at her.
“Max, please,” Martha said, her voice almost breaking into a sob.
She took a deep breath, brushed a curl from her forehead. “I saw you when I went into that room. Max, your face was white. You were scared, weren’t you? If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”
Max downed the rest of the drink, sat down next to Martha and put his finger gently into her shining brown hair. He pushed a curling lock away from her eyes. “The man I met last night was called Burton, Daniel Burton. I knew him during the war. He was a sergeant in my platoon. I hadn’t seen him since the war ended.”
“Why did you lie to the police?”
“I didn’t. They asked me about someone called Crawford. I don’t know anyone by that name. But they told me he had Grenadier Guards cufflinks and I started to get a bad feeling. And then they said this Crawford had our address and the phone number of the paper. That’s when you came in. That’s what you saw in my face.”
“So you think Burton is Crawford?”
“It might be another man, but if it is, it would be a hell of a coincidence.”
Martha thought about that. “Well, let’s try to call your friend. You have his number, don’t you?�
�
“No. He didn’t give it to me. We just had a few drinks and a chat. I’d already had a few, so I was a bit, um…”
“Blotto.”
“Fuzzy. And then he left.”
“Hmm.” She tried to sound casual, but many emotions were moving around, clashing and colliding into each other. She believed Max, of course, about his friend, and about his fear that it was Burton who was dead. But, still, there was something else that he wasn’t telling her.
She put a hand on his arm. “What did you talk about? With your friend, Burton. What did you say? Precisely.”
“Um…”
“Oh, Max. Think.”
“I’m trying. Let’s see. Well, I was in the pub, and I’d had a few. I’d chatted with a couple of fellows from the paper. That’s right. Burton came up to the bar and sort of turned and looked at me and then I turned away, you know, like you do when you’re casually glancing around. Then I turned back and said, Burton? Dan Burton? And he said, yes. And then it was as if I was looking at my past and I knew him suddenly, instantly. I suppose there are faces you’ll never forget. And we had a few drinks, chatted about this and that. I told him I was married, worked at the Chronicle now and then. He said he’d read my stuff and liked it. It was busy then, and when it got quieter we talked more, but I can’t remember that.”
“But what of him? What did he say about himself? Where does he live? Is he married?”
Max thought, tried to remember. He squeezed his mind for any clue, any remembrance, no matter how trivial. He shook his head. “If he told me anything that could help, I can’t recall it. I think I’d had more than a few by then.”
Martha sighed audibly. She couldn’t hide her frustration, but, equally, she couldn’t hide her fear. After a moment, though, she started to think about Max, and her anger and annoyance evaporated. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If it’s your friend who’s dead, I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s strange, though,” Max said. “What the police told me about the man having our address and the number of the Chronicle. If it is someone called Crawford, why would he have my name? And if it was Burton, then him meeting me wasn’t the accident, it seemed.”
Murder Under A Green Sea Page 3